Upon the morrow Barakah had quite forgotten the old woman; she was lounging on a sofa, smoking after breakfast, watching the slave-girls dress Muhammad, when Umm ed-Dahak stole in barefoot, making reverence. The crone sank down before her as of right, and kissing her feet, asked how she did and praised her loveliness. Then, looking at the infant, she exclaimed in natural tones, “Ma sh´Allah! May Our Lord preserve him in all times and places!” and straightway began making baby noises.

Barakah thought the moment opportune for getting at the secret of that incident which teased her memory. But Umm ed-Dahak, though she answered volubly, made no disclosure. Indeed, as Barakah soon learnt, that seeming reckless chatterer was in the habit of imparting only what she chose to tell.

It was manifest that half her compliments were insincere, nor did she take the slightest trouble to disguise the fact; but in the intervals of soporific fiction and pure blandishment she spoke of things worth knowing in a tone of frank goodwill. She knew the why and how of every custom, the stories giving rise to every proverb, and was so acute a judge of human character that her gossip had the flavour of an intellectual game. Her wiles, it seemed, were worn to show her cleverness, or cynically, to travesty arts which flourish in this transitory world.

She became a member of the household, but with privileges. Barakah was the sultan, she the grand vizier, it was agreed. No monarch ever had a more delightful minister. She made the slave-girls more attentive to their mistress, whose comfort she increased in a variety of ways. She knew where to lay her hands upon the leading story-tellers and musicians, and was herself the most accomplished female mountebank at that time living. She soon learnt every mood of her protectress, and its antidote. The latest scandal dwelt at her tongue’s tip.

The whole harÎm knew Umm ed-Dahak as a joker. Slaves from outside were always coining pretexts to enter the apartment, just to look at her; and the more frivolous among the ladies came to hear her stories.

“I am for them a comical performance, not a child of Adam,” she told Barakah. “How different from thy kindness, O my sovereign lady! Thy gracious condescension feeds and clothes me.”

Therewith she kissed the hand of Barakah, who was affected. By such small means did she confirm her sway.

Her intelligence, her laughing view of life, were stimulating, and prevented Barakah from brooding upon hopeless problems.

Without attempting to fatigue her mind in vain attempts to grasp the universe—as Europeans do, inviting pessimism—this old woman took her portion as it came, with relish and a very searching scrutiny. She likened herself sometimes to a fisher of the Nile, who all his life frequents one reach alone. He knows the currents and the mud-banks, marks the winds, and, without preoccupation with the river’s source or outlet, is cunning in the art of bringing fish to land. The soul of her philosophy was non-resistance; her morality held all means lawful to escape oppression.

“God is gracious and all-knowing,” she would shrug. “He gives to all His creatures, great and small, the wherewithal to move in their appointed element—to birds wings, fins to fishes, guile to women.”

In her time, she admitted, many sins had soiled her hands; shameful employments had defiled her countenance. They would be pardoned, being but a means to live. She held, against the world’s opinion, that Allah is indulgent to the faults of women and even has a secret fondness for them. Yet, with her guile, she had an admiration for pure virtue, a teardrop for true love, wherever found. And with all her common sense and her acuteness she was superstitious. As the fisher of the Nile, her chosen image, wears an amulet and names the name of power before he casts his net, so Umm ed-Dahak armed herself against malignant influences. Her belief in witchcraft, philtres, and all kinds of charms was quite beyond the reach of argument.

The old woman never asked for any wages. She took what food she wanted, helped herself to cigarettes, and called for a narghileh when the fancy seized her. By the Pasha’s order, in accordance with a pious custom observed at that time in good Muslim houses, eatables, such as meat and milk and vegetables which might go bad, were not kept overnight, the remainder of each day’s provision being given in the evening to the poor dependants. Of this dole Umm ed-Dahak claimed her share. If she required a garment or a gift of money, she did not beg for it, but told some tortuous and lengthy story which ended in a present as snakes end in tails. When Barakah saw through the artifice, she was in no way disconcerted. She merely smiled and praised her quick intelligence.

“Her need is real, for she is poor,” said Fitnah KhÂnum, when Barakah remarked on the old woman’s foibles. “But she loves subtlety far more than comfort, and would refuse high monthly wages, to obtain a lesser sum by stealth and coaxing, as occasion offered. She has had much money given to her, to my knowledge; but it is as dust to her. She is like the clever fellow in the story, who, having earned much money by his ingenuity, scrambled it among the crowd; and in the end, when it was finished, sighed, ‘O Allah, would that I had all the gold on earth to go on flinging it and see men fight like dogs for its possession!’”

Fitnah, though she scolded the old woman, had a liking for her company and waggish talk. And Umm ed-Dahak, being very diplomatic, paid her court. Indeed, she flattered all the ladies of the house with the assurance that she wished to be the spokesman of their will with Barakah, and went to them for orders every day.

The only person whom she feared was YÛsuf Bey, though she had known him from a child. At the first hint of his approach she fled the house. In vain did Barakah assure her he had no objection to her presence—nay, had said more than once that he would like to see her. The old creature smiled and wriggled, “May our Lord preserve him!” but fled no less. It all came of her desire for surreptitiousness. She would not have felt well in a harÎm of which the lord approved of her.

Contentment grew in Barakah from day to day, and as the months wore on she lost the wish to go abroad. The young Muhammad could now run about, although he sometimes tumbled and set up a howl. He had been taught to testify to his religion in a piping voice and screamed at visitors, “There is no God but God. Muhammad is the apostle of God”; for which they blessed him. He had also learned to curse the infidels ferociously. A turbulent and wilful child, his mother and old Umm ed-Dahak thought him perfect. They never tired of watching him torment the slave-girls. “Ma sh´Allah!” the Mother of Laughter would croak rapturously. “A blusterer, by the Most High! A boy with all the signs of manhood on him! In sh´Allah, he will live to bully grown-up men!”

Occasionally Barakah paid visits as in duty bound; but she much preferred to stay indoors, to smoke and dream and talk with Umm ed-Dahak. Her husband, by his father’s influence, obtained a post of some importance, necessitating their removal shortly to a proper house, with a selamlik of its own where he could see his courtiers. Barakah looked forward to the change with high indifference, though Umm ed-Dahak strove to waken her enthusiasm, crying:

“Thou wilt now have eunuchs and a carriage of thy very own. In sh´Allah, YÛsuf Bey will go on rising till thy pomp excels the dignity of mighty queens.”

Her life could hardly be more easy, she considered; she was quite content. The Pasha’s ladies would be grieved to lose her, and she would feel quite lost apart from them. She thought they all respected and admired her.

It was therefore a great shock to her when one afternoon MurjÂnah KhÂnum sent for her and read her a kind lecture on her way of life.

“My pearl,” she said, “I am the head of this harÎm and in some sort responsible for all its members. I do not see a slave degenerating without endeavouring to stop the process by a word of warning. How much greater is my duty towards a near relation! My flower, thou art an Englishwoman and we Turks of Europe and of Asia welcomed thee to El IslÂm as our own sister. We looked to thee for force of character, for the light of education, for refinement. What has happened, on the contrary? Thou shunnest us for boon companions, persons of the country, who, however estimable, are inferior. AmÎnah KhÂnum yesterday complained that thou art growing a fellÂhah both in speech and conduct. I do not hold with her, I only tell thee what she said—a thing I cannot bear to hear of my dear daughter. My child, I speak in tenderness. Give thought to higher things—our holy Faith, the dignity of life—and spend not all thy time in mere frivolity. Keep that old woman in her place; I say not shun her, since she is amusing. Frequent good houses, study holy books. To spend one’s whole life in the hot room of the bath is not existence.”

Barakah was deeply hurt. To have her harmless pleasures so severely criticized was as cruel as to see a flower destroyed by hail. She could not take the lofty standpoint of the Turkish lady. Had she done so, viewing life in all its horror, she would have gone mad. How could she bear to look upon herself, the renegade? She was now glad that she was soon to leave that hateful house.

When she told Umm ed-Dahak of her grief, expecting sympathy, the latter smiled and said:

“The right is with her. We must not neglect the things divine. I will myself instruct thee in them, having some small learning. In sh´Allah, I will teach thee to endure those thoughts which now appal thee.”

Instruction of that kind was needed two days later, when Barakah was driven to her new abode. As she alighted from her carriage at the door, some men in waiting cut the throat of a live buffalo by way of compliment. Blood spurted in her path across the threshold.